


Profundity

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Rivers, Summer, Swimming, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fat trans Porthos, Athos, being in love, swimming, a river. Some angst, see the warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Profundity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MDJensen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Chronicle of Secondary Education](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6803095) by [MDJensen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen). 



> For MDJensen because fat Porthos is inspired, and I was insprired to write this by MDJensen's writing of fat Porthos. Also just because they're entirely lovely and want to give presents. 
> 
> WARNINGS: transphobic language, fatphobia, people being arseholes, Rochefort is a complete dick and uses some ugly language. Lots of fluff to counter and Constance give Rochefort what for.

Athos can’t remember what they did, as teenagers, but as an adult, all he wants to do in the river is float. He remembers there being more going on, more things to do, when he and Thomas had gone out to the pond at home. Constance is trying to get a game going, and d’Artagnan’s splashing about enthusiastically. Athos swims a bit away and flips onto his back and drifts, letting the current take him. They’d walked up river, so they could float back down to the picnic things. Athos turns his head and watches Porthos swing into view. 

 

He’s sat huddled in a jumper, on the picnic blanket. He’s set all the food out and taken off his shoes, but that’s it. Athos frowns. Porthos had said he didn’t feel like swimming, which Athos had assumed meant he was going to sprawl in his swimming trunks and binder in the grass, eating and sunbathing. That’s what he usually does. Athos swims for shore and scrambles out, laughing as he slides in the mud, landing in a wet, slightly muddy, heap at Porthos’ side.

 

“Good swim? You gonna go round again?” Porthos asks, with a bad attempt at a smile.

 

“Thought I’d try and talk you into coming with me to float,” Athos says, reaching out to get hold of Porthos in some way. Porthos makes a strangled sound and tries to shift out of the way, sucking his stomach in. Ah.

 

“Not really in the mood,” Porthos says. 

 

“Alright. Aren’t you baking in this?” Athos asks, tugging at Porthos’ sweatshirt. 

 

Porthos shakes his head and tugs it out at the front, hunching further in on himself. There’s sweat on his brow, under his curls, though. Athos sighs, wondering who said what. There are plenty of people here this weekend who might’ve upset Porthos, on purpose or by accident. 

 

“Come for a walk with me?” Athos asks. 

 

“Um, I’m happy here,” Porthos says. 

 

“Put me together a sandwich, then? The others’ll be here soon, and then, shoom! All this lovely food will be gone.”

 

Porthos manages a real smile, this time, fingers threading into Athos’ wet hair, soft and fond and lovely. Athos smiles back, stretching out in the sunshine, letting himself go all floppy. Porthos gets onto his knees and pulls different food to him, contemplating the options. Athos watches him, enjoying the serious frown of concentration. He knows Porthos is going to carefully construct a masterpiece, built just for Athos, trying to get it exactly right. 

 

The others come up from the river about five minutes later, breaking Athos’ Porthos-gazing. They sprawl and sit and lie around, talking loudly over one another, eating their way through most of what’s there. Athos gets distracted by Constance, debating local politics. He’s sat by Porthos, a hand resting absently on Porthos’ back, so he’s aware Porthos is still unhappy. Aramis is talking to him, though, and Porthos keeps on laughing, so Athos concentrates on winning his argument. 

 

He doesn’t realise until most people are done eating, some of Anne’s friends have gone off for a walk, d’Artagnan and Aramis are lying in the sun on top of each other kissing and whispering, that Porthos hasn’t eaten much. Athos knows he ate an apple, and a couple of crackers, but he’s pretty sure that’s it. 

 

“Come on,” Athos says. “Walk with me? Please?”

 

“I’ll come for a walk,” d’Artagnan says, getting up off Aramis. Aramis tries to pull him back. “I’m bored, Ari.”

 

“But I’m kissing you. How can you be bored?” Aramis asks, mock-outraged, laughing. 

 

“Go on, get back in the river,” d’Artagnan says, wandering over to Athos. “Put suncream on, this time! You’re burning.”

 

“I’m nicely browning,” Aramis says. 

 

“You’re burning. And you’re going to die of skin cancer,” d’Artagnan says. 

 

d’Artagnan pulls Porthos up, ignoring any and all protests, and firmly links their arms, starting them off. Athos gets up too. Aramis catches his ankle, pausing him, and bounces to his feeet. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Aramis asks. “He ate a single apple.”

 

“No idea,” Athos says. 

 

“Take him back to the house,” Aramis says. “Just, just take him home. He’s miserable.”

 

Athos considers it, locating Porthos and d’Artagnan. They’re stood by the stile, waiting for him. They’re headed in the direction of the cars. d’Artagnan probably has a sneaky plan. Athos nods, and gathers his and Porthos’ things, making sure he has his car keys and Porthos’ shoes. Then he catches them up. 

 

“What’s this?” Porthos asks, tugging one of his shoes. “I don’t wanna wear those. Are you planning on making us go through the thistle field?”

 

“No, thought I’d bring them in case we needed them,” Athos says. “Are we walking?”

 

“Oh, you were waitin’ for us, then?” Porthos says, climbing over the stile. 

 

“So. If we did go to the cinema, would you be willing to watch that?” d’Artagnan says.

 

He hops over after him, getting himself into Porthos’ space, hands everywhere. d’Artagnan is notoriously terrible at personal space, but this is definitely on purpose. Athos can tell by the way d’Artagnan avoids Porthos’ stomach and hips, which he usually loves to cuddle with. Porthos doesn’t shift away from d’Artagnan. 

 

“I dunno, d’Art. Why do you have to make me watch scary stuff?” Porthos grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

 

“Because it’s hilarious,” d’Artagnan says. “We get double the entertainment for the same price. Or we could see if there’s something weepy. You like crying at the cinema.”

 

“I do not,” Porthos says, but he’s not very vehement about it. 

 

“Yep. You cried at the end of the Hobbit, just because you could.”

 

“It was sad,” Porthos says. 

 

They bicker companionably back and forth, and Athos meanders along behind them. d’Artagnan is singularly good at gently teasing Porthos and slipping in compliments when Porthos isn’t paying attention. Athos wishes he had that skill. Just telling Porthos he’s wonderful makes him flustered, but the way d’Artagnan does it is so natural, so easy. Porthos turns slightly, grinning at Athos, and holds out a hand. Athos catches up and takes it, and Porthos goes back to trying to explain to d’Artagnan that, no, actually, it hadn’t been tears d’Artagnan had spotted last night at the theatre. They’d been seeing a Shakespeare play. Athos is pretty sure they were tears. 

 

Porthos stops when they reach the cars, and snorts, shaking his head at both of them. He swallows, then shuts his eyes, and pulls them both into a rough, strangling cuddle. Athos grumbles, but d’Artagnan throws himself enthusiastically into it. 

 

“Anne was trying to tell Ninon which one of us I was, without calling me the black one. Ended up using the fat one, instead,” Porthos mutters. “All them women were talkin’ about bikinis and looking skinny and complaining about their fat bits, on the walk down. And Treville was talking to Constance about adoption, and he struggles to keep my pronouns straight, talking about me back then. He accidentally outed me, as it were, to that  _ twat _ Anne invited. Rochefort. When Anne called me the fat one, Rochefort called me, uh, somethin’ else. He wondered why you’d… why.”

 

“Why I’d love you?” Athos asks. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “No. What you could possibly find attractive about me.”

 

“Wow. Anne has awful friends,” d’Artagnan says. “And when you’ve been nice enough to let us take over your house for her birthday, and been so nice and welcoming to everyone! I don’t get it. I do not get it. What, like, what even goes through people’s heads?”

 

“I’m used to it,” Porthos says. “None of it was terrible. I am the fat one. I was just feeling self conscious about it, because of all the body-talk and diet talk.”

 

“Let’s go home,” Athos says. “We’ll have the house to ourselves for a bit.”

 

“I wanted to go swimming,” Porthos says, sadly, looking back up the path, letting go his hold on them. 

 

“I’ll do lots of swimming for you,” d’Artagnan says, grinning, smacking a kiss to Porthos’ cheek. “I have an idea, actually. Anne’s been on and on at Connie about going up to the castle. We should suggest doing that tomorrow, and then, well, it’s not like you want to go to the castle for the millionth time, and Aramis and I have been here enough that if I see that damned castle again I’m leaping from the battlements. So we’ll come swimming instead.”

 

“It’s so stupid. I should just go,” Porthos says. “Swim. Ignore them. I’m not ashamed.”

 

“You are upset, and a little anxious, and you’ve been insulted,” d’Artagnan says, indignation re-entering his voice. “You’re allowed to not want to be around the dicks who did all that.”

 

“You see things so nice, sometimes,” Porthos says, arms tightening. Athos gets squished into Porthos’ armpit. 

 

Porthos lets out a shuddering breath and lets them go, then hugs d’Artagnan on his own. d’Artagnan shifts until it’s him hugging Porthos, instead of Porthos clinging. Athos watches d’Artagnan’s gentle hands, the warmth and fondness in the embrace, and wishes again that he was as good at d’Artagnan is. 

 

“Right. Better go, before Aramis sends out a search party. He’ll want kissing by now,” d’Artagnan says, grinning. “Better go smother him in suncream, too. Don’t want him dying of skin cancer.”

 

“Do it sexy,” Porthos advises. “Rub it in and pretend it’s a seduction. Tell ‘im you like doing it, getting your hands on ‘im and that.”

 

“You’re an absolute genius,” d’Artagnan calls, leaping over the stile and jogging away. 

 

Athos waits, feeling a little awkward, for Porthos to make for the car. He walks carefully over the gravel. Athos considers offering him shoes, but he’s too used to Porthos. He refuses to wear shoes in the countryside. Athos unlocks the car and dumps their things in the back. He puts the aircon on as soon as they get in. His sinuses are beginning to forget he took an antihistamine this morning and he’s quite glad to escape the pollen really. His hayfever is mild, but it’s annoying enough to make him grumpy about it. He pulls out a tissue from the packet in his pocket and stifles a few sneezes. 

 

“Bless,” Porthos says, leaning back in the seat, turning to watch Athos blow his nose. 

 

“Stupid nose,” Athos says, making Porthos’ lips quirk. 

 

“Lovely nose,” Porthos says, reaching out to boop it, laughing when it makes Athos sneeze again. “Bless, sorry.”

 

“You’re not a bit sorry.”

 

“No. It’s cute,” Porthos says, and does it again. Athos pulls his head out of Porthos’ reach and scowls, but Porthos looks so happy that it turns into a smile. 

 

“Are you cool enough? I can make the car colder,” Athos says, noticing that Porthos is still a bit sweaty and flushed. 

 

“No! Fuck’s sake, I’m a ridiculous arse,” Porthos says. 

 

A flurry of enthusiastic movement later, Porthos is down to his binder and jeans and nothing else. Athos catches a moment of contemplation, then Porthos wriggles out of his trousers, too, and sighs in contentment. Athos starts the car and pulls away. He drives down from the river to the little village, then sits at the crossroads, indicator ticking to the left. 

 

“Fuck it,” Athos says, and turns right. 

 

He drives the twenty minutes to the other bit of river that they sometimes swim at, and parks up. Porthos smiles lazily at him, poking at his cheek and nose. 

 

“You’re gonna sneeze, up here,” Porthos says. “So much cow-parsley.”

 

“Don’t care. We’ll be in the river, that’ll help,” Athos says. 

 

“Got to walk down,” Porthos says. “I’m fine with going home.”

 

“Well I’m not. I’m not fine with going home, and I’m not fine with Rochefort being a homophobic, transphobic arse, I’m not fine with Anne insulting you even if it was by accident, I’m not fine with Treville forgetting we’re not entirely among friends, I’m not fine with any of it,” Athos says, anger swelling. Then it subsides and he sighs. “I just hate it so much when you- God, you’re kind and clever, and you’re beautiful, and you’re, you’re, I don’t have the words, but you’re brilliant. Stupid. Come on, let’s go.”

 

Athos gets out of the car and slams the door, locking the car, and starts to stride away. Then he goes back and unlocks it so Porthos can get out, too. When you lock the car from ouside, you can’t unlock it from inside. Porthos is laughing too hard to get out, though, and just sits with the door open, cackling wildly. Athos scowls, arms crossed, and waits. Porthos eventually gets up and flings his arms around Athos, lifting him off his feet. 

 

“You silly goose,” Porthos says. “Lock it, then.”

 

“We’re not taking towels?” Athos asks, locking the car. 

 

Porthos shakes his head, and walks forwards, Athos still held off the ground in a hug. They stumble along like that for a few paces, then Porthos sets him down, still laughing. Athos taps his shoulder to still him, and then taps between them to ask for a piggyback. Porthos’ laughter is renewed by that, but he turns so Athos can get on. Athos rides all the way to the swimming spot, arms around Porthos’ shoulders. 

 

He also sneezes on Porthos several times. Which makes Porthos laugh and laugh. 

 

This spot is one of the ones which no one else ever seems to come to. When they get there, Athos turns Porthos gently, and pulls the binder up. Porthos nods and holds his arms up, letting Athos remove it.

 

“Never get that back on, once I’m wet,” Porthos says. 

 

“Never mind,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos suddenly gets a look, and Athos tries to escape, but he’s not quick enough: Porthos scoops him up with a roar and tosses him into the water, bombing in after him and nearly landing on top of him. Athos comes up sputtering. 

 

They spend the afternoon trying to dunk one another, playing, swimming, floating. Porthos gets incredibly happy and that means he throws Athos into the river a few more times, and finds a shallower bit so he can launch Athos from his hands into the water, and swims under Athos and comes up with Athos on his shoulders, and scrambles out of the river onto a rock to leap in, yelling joyfully. 

 

They lie in the grass as the sun cools to evening, and Porthos links their hands. Then he lets go and shifts until he can rest his head on Athos’ chest. They lie there for a long time, not speaking, just breathing. Porthos is one of the most talkative people Athos knows, but he’s also the best out of everyone at being quiet. Athos wants to say something profound and loving, something really deep, but he can never find the words to put these feelings into. He’s testing some out in his mind, stroking Porthos’ hair, when Porthos breaks the moment. 

 

“Me trunks are riding right up me arse, and if I had bollocks they’d be proper strangled by now,” Porthos grumbles, sitting up and fishing the material out of his bum. Athos laughs. “What?”

 

“I was having a moment. A romantic one,” Athos says. “You ruined it.”

 

“Oh. Sorry. You do your thing. Shall we go back? I’m so hungry it feels like my stomach’s eating itself.”

 

“Oh my god, I forgot! I brought you food. Obviously. It’s in the car,” Athos says, scrambling to his feet and pulling Porthos after him, hurrying back. 

 

“Slow down!” Porthos says, laughing. “I can’t go so, um, bouncily! I’m not wearin’ anything! I’m flinging about all over the place, here.”

 

“You have such a way with words,” Athos says, slowing. Porthos takes his hand and they wander back to the car, Porthos holding an arm across his chest and laughing. 

 

“Bloody boobs,” Porthos says, sprawled in the front seat, munching his way through a lunchbox of avocado and crayfish salad. 

 

“You want a t-shirt?” Athos asks, rummaging through the things in the back seat to try and find the rest of the food. 

 

“Yeah. Also want to come watch you, because I’m betting your arse looks mighty fine right now, but I can’t be bothered to move. Can you come round here and do sommat?”

 

“Lech. No I cannot,” Athos says.

 

He finally unearths a shirt and a sandwich, an orange, a pasty, a brownie. He dumps his bounty in Porthos’ lap and wriggles out of the car. He laughs, and goes the long way around, walking in the way Porthos calls his ‘sassy hips’, pausing in front of the car to bend and stretch, enjoying Porthos laughing gaze on him, playing to the attention. 

 

“That’s lovely, darling, but let’s get moving so you can take me home and give me the same show but naked,” Porthos calls. “Your pink pineapple print trunks are amusing, but hardly sexy.”

 

Athos gets into the car, laughing, leaning over to get a fishy kiss. 

 

“My trunks are very sexy, I’ll have you know,” Athos says.

 

“Come on. All this food is great, but I want chips. Can we get chips?”

 

“‘Course. Um, only if you have your wallet, actually, I think I left mine at the house.”

 

Porthos empties his jeans pockets, then his sweatshirt. He finds no wallet, but does find a ten pound note. He holds that up in victory. Athos swings the car onto the road and heads for town, and the chip shop. 

 

“I wonder where this came from?” Porthos says, looking at the tenner. “Oh, I know. You know that twenty you gave me to get the shopping?”

 

“Is that my change? You told me there wasn’t any!” Athos says, laughing again. 

 

“Bad habit,” Porthos says, shrugging.

 

“No it’s not. You just think it’s hilarious.”

 

Porthos doesn’t deny that. He gets his shirt on before they get to town. When Athos parks, Porthos puts his jumper on, too. He leaves his shoes and jeans off, though, so Athos decides he’s just cold. Athos puts his own jumper on and they go into the chippy hand in hand, Porthos running through all the things he might order. 

 

When they get back to the house, they make their way to the kitchen. The doors are open, and people are sat out on the patio. Aramis, d’Artagnan and Constance are inside, so Porthos joins them, pulling a chair close to Aramis to get a cuddle from him. Athos sits next to Constance, who steals the chips he hasn’t eaten yet. 

 

“None for us?” Aramis asks, taking a handful of Porthos’ chips. 

 

“Oi, they were the cheesy ones I was saving for last!” Porthos says. 

 

“I know,” Aramis says. “You always put the best bits aside, and they’re the easiest to steal. It’s very good of you.”

 

“I hate you,” Porthos says, pulling himself out of his cuddle with Aramis. 

 

“I thought you were coming home,” d’Artagnan says, yawning. “Where’d you get to?”

 

“Went up the river a bit,” Porthos says. “Skinny dipping, watery sex, lots of sexiness. Athos did a strip tease for me. Stuck some things up his bum.”

 

“What are you on about?” Athos says, as Aramis and Constance laugh. d’Artagnan looks a little horrified. “We just went swimming.”

 

“Why didn’t you swim with us?” Anne asks, coming inside with an empty plate and settling gracefully in Constance’s lap, kissing her. 

 

“Skinny dipping,” Porthos says, firmly. 

 

“Skinny dipping,” Athos agrees, resigned to the fact that Porthos is going to be as absurd as he can to escape answering anything truthfully. 

 

“And sex,” Porthos adds, hopefully.

 

“I did not have sex in the river,” Athos says, glaring. 

 

Rochefort and Ninon come in, too, and Porthos stiffens a little. Conversation turns general, and Athos stops being able to keep track of it, sitting quietly listening to bits here and there. He frowns, after a while. Rochefort is holding out to an audience of three, instigating what sounds like an argument about feminism. He keeps making badly veiled comments, and glancing to Porthos, smiling. Athos looks at Anne, wondering why she’s friends with such an arsehole, but she’s not paying any attention, busy making out with Connie. 

 

Connie’s noticed, though. She’s glaring at Rochefort. Suddenly she leaps to her feet, scowling, fists balled at her sides. 

 

“Fuck you and your binary and misogynistics and your stupid transphobic comments, Rochefort,” Constance says. “You’re not ignorant, you’re bigoted and stupid. You’re being impossibly rude, so incredibly rude. On purpose. I want you to leave.”

 

“Not your house, little lady,” Rochefort says. “I’m here to celebrate a friend’s birthday.”

 

“Anne’s my girlfriend,” Constance says. “I organised this, I’m hosting. I can and am kicking you out. Get out, get out! I won’t have you insulting my friends. I’m sorry I ever brought him here, guys.”

 

Porthos slips away at this point, quietly removing himself from the room. 

 

“Annie?” Rochefort says. “Would you like to walk with me?”

 

“No. I don’t know why Constance is asking you to leave, or what you’ve done, but I’ll back her up,” Anne says, quiet but firm. “Please leave. I’ll get in touch with you later, after Constance and I have talked, if I feel I want to.”

 

“Anne!” Rochefort says, outraged. 

 

“Please. Don’t cause a scene. We’ll sort it out another time, but for now I think you should head home,” Anne says. 

 

“Oh, you’re all taking Porthos's side?! It’s stupid! An abomination to God and everything-” Rochefort starts. 

 

He’s cut off by Constance’s fist colliding with his jaw. He goes toppling backwards off his chair with the force. They all stare, completely shocked. Rochefort snarls, lunges at Constance, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the house. They wait until they hear his big BMW roaring away. 

 

“Oops,” Constance says, sounding not at all regretful. “Did I upset him?”

 

“Connie,” Anne says. 

 

“He is a insulting… Anne, you be friends with whoever you want, but if you ever,  _ ever _ bring me into the same room as that man again, I will be very angry,” Constance says. 

 

“Alright,” Anne says. 

 

Athos follows Porthos, waving Aramis’ concerned looks away. He finds Porthos upstairs, out on the balcony. He turns to Athos with a grin, and holds out a big bag of Doritos. Athos takes a handful and settles with his back against the railing. 

 

“That was dramatic,” Athos says. 

 

“Mm. Did he say rude things?”

 

“Very.”

 

“Did he leave?”

 

“Yep. Constance punched him off his chair.”

 

“Awesome.”

 

“So. Tomorrow. Swimming, or castle?”

 

“Dunno. What about the butterfly house? I like that, and I bet Anne would, too.”

 

Treville taps on the open door and comes out, making a face at Athos so Athos knows this is going to be an apology conversation. Athos heads it off with a short head-shake. Treville nods, and smiles instead. 

 

“Dunno, Ath,” Porthos says. “Maybe swimming, I suppose. Oh, we should completely definitely go to lunch at the new place in town. Anne’ll love it.”

 

“You mean they have a reputation for making great seafood pasta,” Athos says. 

 

He nudges Porthos so Porthos turns and notices Treville. 

 

“Hey, Dad,” Porthos says softly. 

 

“Seafood pasta sounds great,” Treville says, leaning next to Athos. “I wouldn’t say no to butterflies, either.”

 

“You love them,” Porthos says. “Such a softy.”

 

“I’m an angry bear,” Treville says. 

 

Athos snorts. Treville has a temper, but he’s such a softy. 

 

“A teddy bear, maybe,” Athos mutters. 

 

“What was that?” Treville says. 

 

“I said a lead stare,” Athos says. 

 

Treville laughs. He gives Porthos a long hug, rubbing up and down his back, then leaves them to it again. 

 

“Glad he didn’t say anything,” Porthos says. 

 

“Mm?”

 

“Would really rather just put it all behind me, forget it. Be positive.”

 

“I’m tired. Bed?”

 

“Sex?”

 

“You’re incredibly annoying today, you ace bastard. If I admit I want to cuddle with you will you stop?”

 

“Do me some of your sassy hips,” Porthos says, patting Athos’ bum. 

 

“Alright. Sassy hips and cuddles.”

 

“Done. I’ll nip down to tell Ari about the butterflies, and say goodnight.”

 

“You’re just after brownies or something,” Athos grumbles. “No crumbies in the bed, you know my rule.”

 

“Yeah. I know it,” Porthos says. 

 

He comes up to bed fifteen minutes later with two brownies, and eats them in bed. Athos refuses to do anything nice for him in retaliation. He does cuddle, though, because he’s not going to cut off his nose to spite his face. Porthos is the best cuddler. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering about the title, it's meaningless, I couldn't think of anything to call this.
> 
> EDIT: I changed the title. I thought of this one, instead. I think it's ironic? Is that irony? I dunno. I think I'm funny, anyway.


End file.
